Friday Photo 2026/34

reflections on Market Street, San Francisco

West Edge Opera: Rinaldo

I cannot gush enough about West Edge Opera's witty & astute production of Handel's Rinaldo. I have been going to Handel operas for over 40 years (I saw baroque operas before I saw any of the mainstream repertory) & this is one of the all-around best productions I have seen; everything – concept, costumes, sets & lighting, acting, singing, playing, dancing – worked at a remarkable level.

I was reminded of one of the first operas I saw, the Peter Sellars production of Handel's Orlando at ART in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1982. His idea was to set the work in Cape Canaveral, saying that the contemporary marvels of moon flight were an apt equivalent to the fanciful machinery of baroque opera. The result, propelled as was this production by a cast of superb singers, was so clear & persuasive that a year or so later a co-worker of mine swore it had been performed in English. As those were the days before surtitles, I had thought long & hard, in my opera-going infancy, about whether I wanted to sit through three hours of a drama in a language I basically did not understand. So I told her that I was "pretty sure" (meaning dead certain) it was performed in Italian. She kept telling me I was wrong. A few days later, though, she did grudgingly admit that she thought "perhaps" I "might have been" right about the language. I gave my usual response in such situations, a bland smile, but insert internal eye-roll.

I mention this because there is no real "performance tradition" of these operas; they sank out of sight, mostly, after the eighteenth century & have only been revived in our day. I've seen productions that range from powdered wigs & period-appropriate stage machinery to high-concept modernist shenanigans. One of the many advantages of baroque opera is exactly that there is no performance tradition; the works are flexible & sturdy enough to take on all kinds of approaches.

Just as Sellars set Orlando in Cape Canaveral, so this production, devised, directed, & choreographed by Keturah Stickann, transfers the action of Rinaldo to a comic-book / graphic novel world in which evil (but sexy) villains fight the Police Commissioner & the local superhero for control of the Big City. The original (the libretto by Giacomo Rossi is loosely based on an episode in Tasso's epic Gerusalemme liberata) is set during the Crusades, which feels a bit awkward these days. It's not that the original audience of 1711 really cared about the Crusades, but they would have a pretty clear general sense of who were the good guys & who the bad & whom they should support. Today's audience, by & large, if it feels anything about the Crusades, feels the opposite of the original audience. (I realize I am simplifying a great deal here, as we have contemporaries who care passionately about the Crusades, & are very certain of the right side, & would like to resume the fight, but those people are unlikely to be attending baroque operas in Oakland California.) Setting the action in a comic-book world clarifies which side is which. Most comic books & superhero movies are all about titanic & deeply felt clashes between Good & Evil. And they're very serious about it.

And that's the most astute thing about this choice: it doesn't diminish or mock the material. Just as Mark Morris in The Hard Nut used the graphic style of Charles Burns to shed fresh & illuminating light on Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker, so the comic-book setting here not only clarifies the drama but gives it a contemporary intensity it might lack in a less considered new setting. The vivid colors (lots of dark purple among the wicked, a peacock-blue body suit for our hero) & the bold graphic backgrounds (handled by shifting & skillful projections, designed by Yuki Izumihara), with fights illustrated as in the 1960s Batman TV series with Pow! & Blam! in graphic bubbles, all lie easily on the sumptuous & varied music of Handel's rich score (conducted with verve & authority by Emily Senturia).

The entire ensemble is superb, starting with the dancers, playing various policemen, furies, & suchlike attendants & background personnel; they had a verve & precision that brought all their roles to vivid life, & their Keystone Kop antics were, rather surprisingly (& unlike many of the antics of the original Sennett Kops) very funny. The dancers were Ellis Broderick, Eden Magana, Elena Martins, Devon Martirez y McFarland, Christopher Nachtrab, Max van der Sterre, & Livanna Maislen. Their sense of being vividly, actively present in each moment was shared by the singers: to the splendid singing was added deft characterization, with subtle touches throughout.

As our massively strong & righteous titular superhero, countertenor Kyle Tingzon, clear & pure & true of voice & person, justified the baroque preference for high-voiced heroes. As with many heroes noted for physical strength – Hercules, Samson, Ajax – there's a comic angle to the treatment of him, & a bit of obtuseness in his make-up (both are amusingly illustrated in his battle with the little birds during his picnic with Almirena). He is constantly flexing, grinning, standing with hands fisted on hips Superman-style, striking poses. What you see is what you get, mostly, though he does have his suffering arias, which Tingzon delivers as movingly as you could wish, piercing through the heroic exterior to display a genuine heart within. The posing is actually pretty remarkable; I've seen dramas in which someone playing a boxer has clearly studied his pugilistic choreography but in between those moments lets himself go slack. Tingzon was alert & on point throughout, while also delivering fountains of glittering vocals, a remarkable feat of physical & mental concentration.

Contralto Sara Couden plays Goffredo, here recast as a Commissioner Gordon type, head of the metropolitan police, with an impressively bushy walrus moustache & even more impressive low notes. There's an amusing running gag in which Rinaldo, unaware of his strength, obliviously crushes the Commissioner's hands during a handshake, or unsettles him with the heartiness of a backslap. The Commissioner tries gamely to keep up. He's also a bit appalled by some of Rinaldo's more crotch-centric poses, but that's what you get with superheroes. Shawnette Sulker plays Almirena, the Commissioner's adorable daughter & Rinaldo's love, with pert & appealling comedy, though she also can pluck heart strings with her rendition of what is possibly this opera's most famous aria, Lascia ch'io pianga. (Funny how often in comedies it's the moment of sadness that stands out; to take an obvious operatic example Una furtiva lagrima from the otherwise lightly comic L'Elisir d'amore.) To complete the roster of good guys, we have Gabi Esquinazi in a couple of striking smaller roles, as a Siren & a Magician who helps Goffredo & Rinaldo defeat the forces of evil, transporting them to their magic lair (their supervillain hideaway) on a magical craft: a tandem bicycle. As the Magician, Esquinazi was in a glowing pink ensemble & seemed to be making a play for the Commissioner in various subtle ways, hints the Commissioner decided not to take.

To these forces of righteousness we have opposed the villains: Nikki Einfeld as the enchantress Armida & Efraín Solís as Argante, here the head of a syndicate aimed at eradicating superheroes & otherwise generally being bad guys. Armida, her dark hair swirling high above her head & dark purple flounces cascading down her hips, with a shiny black leather corset & shiny thigh-high black leather boots, surrounded by demons in matching shades of purple literally dancing attendance, is a cross between a dominatrix & a drag queen. Argante wears the classic gangster's dark pin-striped suit, with the surreal touch of rose-pink petals covering the shoulders & the trouser legs. (These petals are a running motif in the costumes; Rinaldo has them as well, though in a shade of blue that matches his outfit, & here I will mention that Bethany Deal did the striking & witty costumes.) Argante has an arrogant & precise formality, at least when dealing with his secretary, or the Commissioner, but he also has a puppy-dog horniness. While embracing Armida he waggles his butt, when thinking about her while alone he slides his hands down to his midsection, he is immediately smitten by the charming Almirena. Both Einfeld & Solís command the stage effortlessly; their scenes have a real spark.

I could rave on & one, with details that instead will be stored in memory, to be replayed over & over. this performance (which, as with all the West Edge productions, I saw twice) was pure joy from beginning to end: even the somber moments are done with such talent, such conviction, such brio that they contribute to the overall sense of joy. I have seldom left a theater with quite this level of exhilaration. If only they could bottle this essence & sell it. Would I restrict myself to a few sips a day. or just heedlessly down the heady elixir?

Museum Monday 2026/33

 

detail of a sixteenth-century Italian majolica gourd flask with stopper, now at the Legion of Honor

Friday Photo 2026/33

 

building detail near the Phoenix Theater, San Francisco

West Edge Opera: The Turn of the Screw

The West Edge Opera Festival is in full swing; as I did last year, I will be seeing each show twice, as I volunteer at the Saturday matinees & am a ticket holder for the Sunday matinees. I have now seen my two performances of Britten's The Turn of the Screw, based on the famous ghost story by Henry James as adapted by librettist Myfanwy Piper. Company music director Jonathan Khuner led a strong performance, with committed, exciting singing from the cast: Laura Bohn as the Governess, Alex Boyer as Peter Quint, Erin Neff as Mrs Grose, Aléxa Sessler as Miss Jessel; James Coniglio & Noah Hajduk alternate as Miles, & Siena Coniglio & Roya Agarwal as Flora (I saw both sets of children). Company head Mark Streshinsky directed a provocative but sometimes puzzling staging.

Plentiful use is made of projections & scrims. I know some people who are immediately put off by scrims on stage, but I am fine with them, especially for a work like this, in which they act as a physical representation of the haziness, the out-spreading ambiguities, of the story & the layers of memory & interpretation or misinterpretation through which that story unfolds. They also provide a useful screen for the plentiful projections, through which this production tells much of its tale; the ghosts, for example, are always projections, never appearing physically on stage until they take their bows. Those singers are sequestered in a discreet curtained booth way up in the auditorium & off to the side; I probably would not have noticed it but someone pointed it out to me & told me what it was. (There is enough weirdness in the Scottish Rite Temple so that this particular oddity didn't stand out.) The physical dislocation between the projected figures on stage & the sound of their voices helps create an otherworldly air about them (this is true also of the amplification of the children's singing, which lends, as amplification usually does, an odd, slightly flattened effect to their voices).

Some of what is shown on film, though, falls under the "puzzling" category I mentioned earlier. When the Governess meets the handsome, romantic guardian of the two children, with his somewhat odd injunction that whatever happens, she, a young & inexperienced woman, must deal with it on her own, without contacting him, the two of them are shown on the scrims in passionate physical embraces. The Governess looks disheveled & a bit distraught. This seems to be something that we are meant to understand is actually happening & not just a (literal as well as metaphorical) projection of the Governess's fantasies about this mysterious figure (he is literally masked, wearing a carnival black mask, which presumably also is meant to differentiate him from Peter Quint, as the same singer performs both roles). When I see moments like this, which I do fairly often in contemporary stagings of works from different, less accommodating times, I wonder if anyone these days knows what "sexual repression" really means. It doesn't mean being a bit discombobulated by a brief & unsatisfying affair; it means that even the notion of such a thing, when it inevitably starts creeping into the susceptible mind, is hurried out of sight, pushed down out of conscious thought, into the murky depths of longing that act as the hidden springs of our outward actions. This story is one that springs in that way from repression. I don't understand what is gained by making the Governess's barely acknowledged desires, or even just her romantic feelings towards the guardian, into actual physical embraces. It seems too crudely obvious.

We are also shown several times footage of Miles at school. He is cowering near a sink, obviously in a bathroom, being pelted by unseen but presumably fellow-student hands with wadded balls of paper. Miles has, of course, been expelled from school, for reasons that are never officially explained. In classic horror-story style, this allows our imaginations to float free, though they mostly head in the direction of some sort of sexual corruption. The footage here, as with that of the Governess & the guardian, is too explicit & also too trivial: this is the sort of thing that gets the perpetrators a stern talking-to, not expulsion. Spelling things out kills the mystery & the haunted atmosphere. Also, it looks as if Miles is the victim, so why would he be expelled? I am assuming the boy we are shown is meant to be Miles; we are not shown his face, which he clutches in his hands, because of course we have two separate Miles (Mileses?) performing. It's not impossible that the unseen Miles is meant to be leading the victimization of another boy, but, again, what happens doesn't seem to warrant expulsion. The scene, whether Miles is victim (as I think he's meant to be) or perp, goes against everything we are told about him: that he is a boy who is very popular with other children & adored by adults. And if he were being bullied & ostracized in school, why would he be so eager to go back?

There are also many projections of the still-living Quint & Jessel in their time with the children. These are literally sunny & quite wholesome: Quint playing catch with Miles (using an American baseball glove, rather surprisingly), sitting with the children in church, teaching them to play the piano, gently touching the swollen middle of an apparently pregnant Miss Jessel. In many of these scenes, Quint is wearing a light tan sweater vest. No man can look insidious, corrupt & corrupting, in a sweater vest. This is simply a fact. I may not know much about fashion, but I know that.

During my second viewing of the production, it occurred to me that perhaps this was a deliberate move, a signal to us: Quint & Jessel are actually not, & were not while living, corrupting influences; they were, instead, positive role models of a healthy sexuality. I think what we have here are essentially two separate sets of ghosts: the wholesome ones &, later on, dressed in serving-man attire & more luridly lit, the evil influences of the Governess's fevered imagination.

This is an interpretation that seems almost comically perverse, but then this is an opera that exists in perversity, that is, in speculation, nuance, & eerie alternatives that go beyond our surface & conventional assumptions. Sometimes what seems perverse is merely unexpected.

I had to parse all this out after seeing the show twice & reading the director's note in the program & thinking between my two performances about the implications of what we are shown. Some elements I haven't mentioned yet went into this, so I'll spell them out now. The Governess (who throughout wears a sort of odd ensemble of plaid skirt & white blouse, like an overaged Catholic schoolgirl back when such girls wore school uniforms) is disturbed by her encounter with the guardian. When she arrives at the lush estate of Bly, the housekeeper, Mrs Grose, who is apparently intended as a sort of Mrs Danvers figure, kisses her ("with your permission") full on the lips. This triggers the already emotionally vulnerable Governess, who picks up on Mrs Grose intense disgust at the former & now dead valet, Quint, & his relations with the former governess Miss Jessel. The Governess then projects her sense of sexual danger & corruption onto these two, hallucinating their appearance as ghosts who are still capable of corrupting Miles & Flora; in the later scenes, when this more threatening Quint appears, we see the Governess off to the side, mirroring his actions in a herky-jerky way (but which is the marionette & which the puppet master?). The Governess determines to protect the children, with increasing hysteria (yes, I know the origin of the word) & dire results.

At least, I think that's what we're supposed to see here. Questions are raised & there are no definite answers, which I suppose is only suitable for a work rooted in a story by Henry James.

I re-read the tale before going to the opera. It is, as any English major can tell you, a celebrated example of the potential ambiguities of a first-person narration: are the ghosts real, or are they a projection of a lonely, repressed young woman? (No other adult actually sees them, & we only have the Governess's word for it that the children do.) It occurred to me this time that there is a third way: the ghosts are indeed a corrupting influence, but what the Governess sees as the corruption of the Innocent is what Blake would have termed Innocence turning into Experience (in this light, Quint's longing appeal to Miles, comparing himself to a wild horse on the shore, is particularly telling). In other words, given what is usually read as the sexual nature of the ghosts' influence, the Governess is trying to keep them artificially innocent, out of adulthood, confined forever in the stylized innocence of the children's folk rhymes that form an important part of the score. The Governess actually succeeds in her aim, but with tragic results. This move from innocence into an adult consciousness expanded by the knowledge of how vicious people can be is certainly one of James's great themes; The Ambassadors & The Golden Bowl & The Wings of the Dove, that massive trio from late in his career, explore this theme with ever-expanding subtlety. How can the good not only remain good but become better exactly through confronting the evils of others?

The idea of Mrs Grose as a repressed lesbian is definitely not in James, but that's OK. It struck me as an intriguing possibility. In the novel, Mrs Grose, as her name indicates, is a sort of salt-of-the-earth, good-hearted but not particularly imaginative woman ("gross" in the sense of solid & not refined, not in the sense of "ooh, icky!"). She functions as the "normal" person who is mostly willing to go along with an educated young woman like the Governess. Interpreting her as a further turn of the Governess's screw ratchets up the general sense of perversity, which certainly works for this opera, but it also removes any sense of a "normal" world, outside of what we see of the living Quint & Jessel.

When I saw this production the first time, I felt the kiss came out of the blue & went nowhere. I did notice in my second viewing that there is a scene when Mrs Grose tentatively & briefly strokes the Governess's hair, but that still isn't a lot. The key mechanism here – the transference of Mrs Grose's obsessions to the Governess – did not occur to me until I read the director's note ("When the housekeeper, Mrs. Grose, who has her own problems of obsession, expresses to the highly suggestible Governess her deep-seated anger toward the memory of the late valet, Peter Quint, we are launched into a perfect storm of psychosis."). I'm pretty sure I would not have picked this up from staging alone. I'm not wild about the Hitchcockian notion of the insidious lesbian, but I can see the possibilities here. (But if it's Mrs Grose's lesbian attraction that rouses the Governess, why is the latter so fixated on Miles & not on Flora?)

Perhaps we are meant to understand the source of the problem not as Mrs Grose's sexuality, but her repression. But "repression" doesn't really come across here. It's inherent in the original material, just because of when it's set. And it is very unclear when this production is meant to take place. I asked a number of people what they thought, & pick a decade from 1890 to the present day & someone suggested it, but no two people listed the same one. I think this matters because ideas of sexual corruption & therefore what should be repressed & therefore whether repression is "good" or "bad" have varied wildly over those years. Miss Jessel's out-of-wedlock pregnancy, as shown here, would be a life-destroying tragedy in one decade & a lovely occasion for a congratulatory party in another. There is no single standard. One thing that has not changed is horror at pedophilia, but honestly I never felt in this production that the ghosts posed any kind of sexual threat to the children; as I said, they seemed to be the only healthy role models they had. (I should mention that some people at the same performance disagreed with me about this.)

There are occasional hints of sexual confusion, or perhaps just gender play: when the children are introduced to the Governess, Flora bows & Miles gives a dainty curtsy, but this seems more like mischievous fun than any sort of "corruption". The libretto uses words that would have carried a subtextual weight when the opera premiered in 1954, a subtext which now comes across more as text: gay, which is used to describe the guardian (making his making-out with the Governess either more or less effective, depending on your point of view) & queer. What do those words mean in the context of whenever this production is set?

The lack of an identifiable time period also reduces the way class differences play out among the characters; again, in some decades the class distinctions are vital & in others not so much. One reason Mrs Grose defers to the Governess is the latter's higher class, & one reason she disapproves of Quint is that he aimed above his station: she asserts that Miss Jessel was a lady & therefore too good for him, but this sort of proto-D H Lawrence theme doesn't really come through here.

The Turn of the Screw is inherently a work (whether original tale or operatic adaptation) of radiating ambiguities. There were several points when I felt this production offered not ambiguity but confusion. I have seen the opera before, heard recordings, read the original story & other works by Henry James (not just in college but recently), read the program notes, & saw the West Edge production twice, & it was still sometimes unclear to me what we were supposed to be seeing, And I wonder how many others will see the opera twice, or have the other background I have just listed. I will speculate that this is a case in which the artists involved were so immersed in the material that what was crystalline to them is murky to those less immersed. But I'm not sure the oddities & confusions are altogether a bad thing. I have pondered this production far more thoroughly than I have more superficially pleasing shows; it led me down previously unexplored paths I would have otherwise missed.

When I started telling myself something in the staging was "wrong" I started wondering why I found it so, exploring different implications & suggestions, & I (mostly) ended up thinking that what I saw was not "wrong" so much as an alternative that I needed to consider. If some things don't quite fit in, & some things seem too obvious & others too vague, if  some confusion & uncertainty remain, that's not really unsuitable to a story like this. This is after all a ghost story, & wondering where the solid ground is & what just happened seem like the essence of a haunting.

Museum Monday 2026/32

 

detail of an untitled study by Diego Rivera for Allegory of California, a ceiling mural for the Pacific Stock Exchange Luncheon Club in San Francisco

Friday Photo 2026/32

 

a street in Oakland, California

Museum Monday 2026/31

 

detail of Interlock by Maren Hassinger, seen at BAM/PFA as part of the special exhibit Maren Hassinger: Living Moving Growing

@ Z Space: In a Memory Palace

Last night at Z Space I saw the first performance of In a Memory Palace, a resonant & mesmerizing new work. Done in the style of Noh Theater, it is the story of a middle-aged woman who visits her father in a senior residence only to encounter a strange & strangely familiar old woman, who reminds her of a childhood neighbor, a refugee from Hitler's Austria, a woman she was sure had died long before. Though this work has a very specific storyline, it is evocative of other journeys, both chosen & forced, both physical & mental; the evocation is not only on the stage, but in the lobby, which contains an installation exploring different aspects of exile & emigration. Moving away from some "native land" or from your family traditions is such a basic American story that it would be difficult to find, I think, someone who didn't connect with this material on some level, perhaps even a profound one.

(I give away some plot twists below, so take that into consideration when deciding whether to read on, though most of them are fairly easily guessed if you've seen any Noh plays.)

This work floats suspended in a liminal space: between Japanese & Western theatrical techniques & traditions; between the flute & percussion of Noh & the Western sounds of cello & piano evoking fin de siècle Vienna; between present & past; among the actual, the remembered, the supernatural, & the desired. The stage is bare; there are actually two stages, a broad main one, bright white, & then, on its left, a smaller one, the same bright white, that functions as the entry/exit ramp as in Noh Theater (but it also, in being slightly set apart & narrower than the main stage, though otherwise resembling it, reinforces the subtle disjunctions that are part of the mood & metaphors of the piece). At the back of the playing area are several very long overlapping translucent white curtains (sort of like shower curtains); onto these are projected monochrome designs, some of them ambiguous (waves? rocks? massed foliage? as well as stars or stylish Viennese designs). To the right, off from the main stage, sits a chorus of eight, who sometimes chant comments on the action.

As in Noh, the action is very deliberate, very considered. The dialogue is mostly chanted to musical accompaniment & is poetic in its repetitions & phrasings. At times I could not catch every line, which is just a reality of listening to material that is sung with musical accompaniment. I briefly wished that they had used surtitles, but decided that would have been too distracting, at least for a compulsive reader like me. As with comments written in the margin of a book, the printed words would pull you out of your own total experience of the material & impose concentration on only certain aspects of what's going on. The imperfection of our perception is actually a key theme of the work, the blurring of words & memories, the half-caught phrases & the passing glimpses of life. Surtitles would force on the work an almost counter-effective clarity. This is not to discount the power & beauty of the words, but just to suggest that's what most important here is not catching each individual line (most of which are clear enough, as is the storyline) but immersing yourself in the mood, one created by slowness, the intense presence of the characters, the spare but rich setting, the mystery of memory, & of the past, our own & the world's.

For it turns out there are several mysteries around the older woman. The woman who remembered her from childhood (she's wrapped in a shawl, sort of babushka style, printed with an abstract monochrome design but with a very bright red fringe; the performer sits to the side for most of the performance with an intense, riveting, attentive quiet) remembered her as saying she was a concert pianist. This elderly woman claims she was a well-known fashion designer to the Viennese haute monde. She was a Catholic married to a Jew; after the Anschluss, such women were "encouraged" to leave their husbands but she refused & they managed to emigrate but of course abandoning their homes & homeland threw their lives off-course & the glamor & excitement of her fashionable, sophisticated Viennese world vanished with that world.

Perhaps this is why the woman's spirit is haunting the earth, to make her story known, or just to revisit herself the life she should have had. Ghosts are a traditional presence in Noh. The character of the old woman is the only one in this play to be masked in the traditional style. But her costumes are Western: a series of strikingly sumptuous gowns in the style & colors (lots of Klimt-like swirls & gold) of the Vienna Secessionists. She ends the work with a solo dance, summoning both the traditions of Japanese theater & the vanished waltzes of Vienna.

The play is brief (about one hour & fifteen minutes) but intense & concentrated, the sort of thing that will flower out in your mind afterward. It is playing at Z Space through 1 August & then goes to San Antonio, Texas. The play has a dedicated website, which you can find here. I will say that the playbill was not entirely clear about who did what & if there was a cast list I couldn't find it. So here's what I found (much of this comes from J Magazine, which had an article about the show; there were copies available in the theater lobby): the script is by Edith Newton, based on elements from her life; the music by David Crandall & Kevin Salfen, costumes by Margaret Mitchell, masks by Kitazawa Hideta, direction by Jubilith Moore. The show was presented by Theatre Nohgaku with Kunoichi Productions & Theatre of Yugen. Kudos to all of them & to the actors & musicians on a magnificent evening.

Friday Photo 2026/31

 

detail of tile work at Francisco Middle School, San Francisco